While George never expected it, he supposed that his bloodthirsty acts of killing evil dragons could be seen as heroic deeds that would earn him the title of saint. What agitated him more was the supposed grandson of his.

“How did he prove that he was St. George’s grandson?” he asked tentatively.

“He came with a medal that belonged to his late grandfather. The late princess – may she rest in peace – authenticated it” the soldier said. He looked at the trembling, ugly beggar and decided to chase him away after all. “Leave now, unsightly things shouldn’t be seen during the princess’ big day” he said, waving his hand at George.

George finally understood. Besides the coat of arms, George had been knighted with a medal that he had treasured dearly. He had kept it in his pack on his horse but the mental blow he had received prior had left him so dazed he had not bothered to take anything from his horse. Someone must have encountered his horse and found all his possessions, including the medal. While the coat of arms could be copied and had room for doubt, there was only one medal ever made. Perhaps he could call out this trickster but who would believe him? The princess was dead; had been for over a year. There was no one alive to vouch for him and with how he looked, he would be lucky if people just dismissed it as the crazed ravings of a madman. There was no place for him here, not anymore.

That evening, he decided to join the feast provided for the homeless that were chased away. One last meal, he thought before he left this kingdom forever. Before he arrived though, his instincts warned him of danger and so he hid himself instead of joining the merry-makers. His instincts were right; what happened after that was a slaughter. The homeless, disabled or sick people were ruthlessly cut down, on the orders of the new prince: useless people were not welcomed in the city and were a waste of the taxpayers’ money. The prince, with his golden hair and shiny silver armour looked malevolent as he watched the corpses being thrown into a large bonfire. From a distance, it really did look like a rousing festival, filled with the scent of roasting meat. It only made George want to gag. George had a feeling that the prince had his own reasons for this sinister act, and that was to cover the tower of lies he had built as the grandson of St. George. But he was not interested in finding out.

Disillusioned on top of disappointment and despair, George left. He wished the kingdom well but with how it had already fallen into the hands of a charlatan, he knew that the next page on the kingdom’s history would be based on nothing but lies. There was no obligation for him to help the kingdom though; he came upon it by accident, killed the dragon by a fluke and left, considering it a good deed done. Whether they flourished or perished would depend on its leaders and if their leader was eager for past glory without seeking the truth, then so be it. A country that decided to hide its ugliness through blood would not go far anyway.

He wandered south, into the dessert and plains of the savannah. While the natives he found were not hostile, they treated him like an oddity, which he was, with his blond hair, blue eyes and fair skin. Finding his scar peaceful, he wondered if he should just stay there for eternity. But too much peace made him restless, so he travelled north again. In the northeast he once again found dragons, and for the first time in a long time, he felt joy. He journeyed for a while in the Middle East; using scimitars instead of swords, watching the scorching sun bake his skin bronze. He learned of their magic and monsters and even adventured with a man named Sinbad for a spell. But the scar kept calling.

After seeing all that he had wanted to see there, after discovering efreet and djinn, after flying on the back of a roc, after seeing a genie grant a wish with his own eyes, he left the land of spice and sand. He went north this time, the scar now a constant sear. There, he found dragons in all shapes and sizes. Snake-like pythons and worms, winged wyverns, many-headed zmeys and of course drakes, the ones that remind people of a traditional dragon. He killed and bathed in their blood again and again. From the warm Mediterranean of the Greeks up to the snow frosted Northern land of the Norse.

And every time he killed another dragon, he took another step into the endless black mire. He still looked like a golden knight, even as the decades passed, but with dead eyes. He shunned battles, no longer interested in the struggles of mere mortals as he outlived kingdoms. The scar no longer gave him peace. The pain was constant, like a screw, drilling into his brain, inch by inch. Food was tasteless and sleep, restless. The dragon had gotten its revenge as nearly two hundred years after its death, St. George, the Dragon Slayer, sank into madness.

The painful scar that was supposed to ease after the death of every dragon no longer offered him this respite. Many a time he had thrown himself off a cliff or run a blade through himself but he was invulnerable. Many a time he told himself not to fight the dragons, to let them kill him instead but the bloodlust took over and he would awaken to find the dragon dead and him covered in blood. He couldn’t kill himself and others couldn’t kill him. He sat many a night alone, laughing like a man possessed, wanting to cry but empty of tears; he was broken.

He circled the tiny European continent two, three times over until he could not find any more dragons. And then he set his sights east. At first there were no problems. Dragons were plagues here too so they welcomed his slayings, even if he was more frightening than the dragons; at least he would leave after he had killed the beasts. But the further east he went, things changed. Dragons became sacred, were deified.

When he killed a Naga, the people in the village were aghast. He had killed their god, now the village would be cursed. He was vilified and called a demon, and there were many who wanted to kill him to appease the gods. So he killed them instead. When he came to, the entire village was massacred, lying in ruins. He was so disgusted with what he had done that he threw up. The bouts of bloodlust had made him lose his consciousness and he was moving on autopilot. George gave a sarcastic, despairing laugh.

He burned the village when he left it; there was nothing else he could do for the villagers. They had been arranged neatly on a funeral pyre but he was not sure if he got their customs right. The dead were dead but he hoped that he could atone for the sin of killing them by accident. People from the neighbouring villages had been shocked and frightened by the sudden disappearance of the village but when they heard that the lord Naga had died as well, they spread rumours of a demon more powerful than a god had gotten loose. To avoid these people, George moved at night, keeping away from civilization where possible. All he did was add to the rumours of a Rakshasa roaming the southern plains.

So he moved to the north again, to hopefully hide in the mountainous peaks he saw. There, amongst the rocks and snow, he found a cave where he sealed himself. There he lay on the cold hard ground in the dark, tormented by the screams of pain and terror echoing in his mind…

“George? George!”

A voice broke his reverie. He looked up to see eyes of pale, pale blue look at him in concern.

“Are you all right? You left the staff canteen so much earlier. What are you doing standing here?"

Looking at the warm and gentle man in front of him, George gave a shudder and without a word, he grabbed Ciel and enveloped him in a tight embrace.

Ciel was shocked at the sudden embrace but he felt no fear. He wanted to push George away but a hoarse voice muffled by his shoulder spoke “Please- just let me hold you for a while”

He could feel the larger man shivering as he was being held. So the arms that he had raised to deny the man fell and he stood, still as a statue while George fought his inner demons on his shoulder. He had seen the dead look in George’s eyes and knew that whatever was haunting him was bigger than Ciel imagined. What he never expected was to hear George mumble words as if chanting a mantra.

“You’re alive. You’re alive. Thank god you’re alive” the arms around him squeezed tighter and Ciel frowned in pain. He wondered if he should say anything or even just raise his arms to hug him back. When he felt a warm damp seep through his shoulders though, he knew what he had to do. He awkwardly raised his right hand and stroked the man’s golden head.

He felt George stiffen but slowly relaxed again when he softly said “It’s all right now, you’re safe.”

‘What a fragile man.’ Ciel thought. So strong and brave but a heart of shattered glass. He didn’t know what caused this breakdown but it must have something to do with his past. Ciel wondered if he should have asked what he did in the canteen, if this was the reason he suddenly became so emotionally weakened. Whatever the case, if fifty years at Sanctuary still could not heal it entirely, then this wound ran deep. So like a mother comforting a child, Ciel stood in silence, his right hand continuously stroking George’s head while his shoulder became increasingly damp. They were in an open corridor but surprisingly, no one came by. Which was fortunate; neither of their dignities could take another blow.

After a while, George seemed to have pulled himself together and let go of Ciel. Aside from his red eyes and pallid face, he was fine. He seemed embarrassed when he noticed the damp patch on Ciel’s vest.

“It’s all right.” Ciel gave a small smile. “Are you feeling better now?”

“Yes, I don’t know what came over me. Sorry about that. And thank you.”

Ciel gave a small laugh. It’s my pleasure. Blanc and Noire are too adult and don’t often give me a chance to be an older brother. Go wash your face before you come to the lounge though. I’m going ahead first.” With that, he left.

George watched him go. He managed to finally say sorry and thank you. What he didn’t tell Ciel in full was: “I’m sorry for hurting you that time.” And “thank you for saving me.” But he wasn’t sure if Ciel was ready to accept those words yet so they would hang in the air, their true meaning unspoken for a time to come.